In Another Life
by e1evenc1ara
Summary: A collection of AU one-shots featuring Clara and the the Doctor (Ten, Eleven, and/or Twelve). These are all written in response to prompts supplied by my tumblr users, which will be displayed at the top of each story.
1. Only the Lonely

Two miserable people meet at a wedding

Eleven/Clara

K+

* * *

The Doctor adjusted his necktie with a scowl. Amy reached across Rory's empty chair and poked him in the ribs.

"Ow!"

"It's my wedding day; stop being such a grump."

He continued to frown. "I hate neckties."

"You wear bowties daily—what's the difference?"

A small smile curled his lips. "I recall a certain kissogram once locked mine in a car door. Sort of turned me off them."

Amy grinned and then shrugged. "You weren't paying attention."

He smiled sadly as she returned her attention to her champagne and Rory sat back down to his seat between them.

_You've had my attention ever since._

Oddly—or not so oddly if you knew Amy and Rory—the two had both chosen members of the opposite sex to stand beside them on their wedding day. Even more oddly, they decided to stick to the traditional gender roles, so the Doctor, Amy's best friend, stood as Rory's best man, while Rory's best friend from work, a pretty girl named Clara, stood next to Amy.

Clara felt completely at sea in this group of people. There were a few work friends in the crowd, but really—Rory was the only person she knew well. She was still incredibly flattered that he and Amy had asked her to serve as Maid of Honour, especially since she still didn't know Amy that well, but she'd never felt so lonely or out of place at a wedding.

She glanced at the happy couple next to her and smiled softly as they leaned in close to whisper something that made them both giggle like children. Her attention was then caught by the best man sitting on Rory's other side. He was also watching the bride and groom, but there was a sadness in his eyes that didn't suit his face. Three glasses of wine later, Clara approached him when the DJ put on the first song. She tugged him from his chair.

"Come dance with me."

"Wha—? I… Oh, OK."

She giggled at how flustered he was, but then smiled when he placed his hands at her waist and they started swaying to the beat. It was probably too upbeat for them to be holding each other like this; most of the couples on the dance floor were just moving in front of each other and laughing, but she had a belly full of wine and he'd touched her out of instinct. He felt like a prat now that he saw everyone else moving around him, but he thought it would be even more awkward to pull his hands away.

Clara laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck, easing some of the tension from his shoulders. He smiled hesitantly and couldn't help but stare at her face; she was even prettier up close.

"You should do that more, you know," she said over the noise.

"Do what?"

"Smile. I've never seen someone look so sour at their best friend's wedding."

Her cheery expression faded as soon as the words left her mouth. The Doctor and Clara both silently acknowledged what that meant, and Clara offered him a soft smile. He watched her curiously as she lifted one of her hands to cradle the back of his neck, unsure of what it was she was trying to express—pity, compassion… attraction? He was probably hoping a bit on the last one.

Then again, they were still dancing two songs later, when the DJ put on a slow number that had Rory and Amy holding each other close in the middle of the dance floor. Clara caught the Doctor watching them and she drew his ear towards her lips. "Meet me by the fountain in two minutes."

"What?" he asked in bewilderment as she slipped away. She disappeared quickly in the crowd—she was terribly short—so, after glancing about helplessly, the Doctor did as he was told.

The fountain was located in a small courtyard just outside the reception hall. The Doctor shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and appraised it as he stood there, waiting for Clara to reappear. He kept glancing over at the doors to the reception, hoping she'd emerge from them soon so he'd feel less foolish standing there all alone, when he heard heels clicking on the stone walkway behind him.

She had a frosted bottle of champagne in one hand and two glass flutes clutched in the other. She flashed him a self-satisfied grin at her acquisition and then said, "Let's go for a walk."

They left through the gated entrance to the building and then walked along the gravel path next to the car park before they found a dark, dimly lit garden beyond the main building that had a bench swing hanging from the heavy branch of an old tree.

"Perfect," she said as they sat down, their heels digging in the grass to set the swing in motion. She handed him the bottle of champagne as they swung lazily back and forth. "Care to do the honours?"

She smoothed the wrinkles from her red chiffon skirt and then laughed at the Doctor's scrunched up features as he struggled to remove the cork from the bottle. "Having trouble?"

He shook his head, still grimacing. "I don't want it to get everywhere."

"Ah—something every girl wants to hear."

His baffled _What?_ was accompanied by the loud pop of the champagne bottle. Foam spurted from the neck onto his trousers and Clara laughed as he groaned in annoyance.

"At least he had good intentions," she teased as she swiped at his knees.

He kissed her. It was quick, and his lips moved too eagerly against hers, but he pulled back before she could properly reciprocate.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?" she teased, breathlessly.

He bowed his head and shook it dismissively. "I just… wanted to kiss you."

Clara reached for his necktie and tugged it from his waistcoat, letting the cream-coloured silk slip through her fingers. "A man who goes for what he wants… an admirable quality." She leaned in close, almost like she was going to kiss him, but instead she lifted her eyes to his and asked, "Then why do I have a feeling this night isn't what you wanted?"

She looked at him the same way as she had on the dance floor. The Doctor glanced towards the reception hall, which seemed terribly small from their relative distance from it, and then back at Clara. "This is exactly what I wanted."

"No, it isn't."

"How would you know? You don't even know me," he said defensively.

"No, I don't," she agreed. "But I understand what it's like to long for someone you can't have."

He glanced away guiltily. Clara heaved a sigh and then grabbed the bottle of champagne from his grasp so she could pour them two full glasses.

"A toast, then," she said, offering him his glass. He couldn't help but smile at her as he accepted it. "To neither of us getting what we want."

It was only then that he realised that Clara harboured similar feelings for Rory. It seemed impossible that they were both sitting there, tacitly confessing their feelings for the newlywed couple they were serving as honoured witnesses to their marriage. The Doctor was the first to laugh at the absurdity of it all and Clara joined him, baring her white teeth as she bowed her head and giggled. She lifted her champagne flute to his and they tapped the glasses together with a muttered 'cheers' before they each took deep gulps of the bubbly liquid.

"So what is it you do, Doctor?" she asked.

"I'm an engineer," he said. "I build things."

"Ah," she replied with an impressed smile.

"And you're a nurse."

Clara frowned. "No, I'm not."

"You work with Rory…"

She laughed. "Yes, in the children's ward. I'm a counsellor."

"Oh," he replied soberly. "Must be rough."

She nodded, a sad smile gracing her lips. "It can be, but not always."

Her heart skipped a beat when he looked into her eyes, his gaze unwavering. "I'd like to kiss you again."

"Yeah?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

Clara bit her lip and allowed her gaze to drop to his mouth. "Go on, then."

He shifted towards her and tilted his head until his lips brushed against hers. Clara closed her eyes and pursed her lips against his, her heart beating rapidly when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, deepening the kiss. She lifted her free hand to his cheek, and he swept the tip of his tongue between her lips. They froze for a moment, both of them breathing heavily as they savoured each other's closeness and warmth before pulling back to look at each other.

"I've never kissed anyone at a wedding before," she said in a hush. "I know that's a thing people do, but I've never done it."

"I have, but only at my own."

Clara leaned back a little in surprise. "You're married?"

"I was. Not anymore."

"Oh. Divorce?"

He shook his head. "No."

Clara shut her eyes and bowed her head against the crook of his neck in silent apology. He exhaled heavily and hugged her to him, his hand rubbing up and down her arm in a soothing manner. He loved her in that moment, this beautiful girl with a kind heart who went out of her way to make him feel less lonely on one of the loneliest nights of his life.

"Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?" he asked.

Clara lifted her head and smiled up at him. "I like coffee."

He smiled hesitantly. "Was that a yes?"

She bit her lip and lowered her gaze for a moment before finally nodding. The Doctor released the breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

"Yes."

They sipped their champagne and swung back and forth for another hour, chatting about Amy and Rory and everything else that popped back into their heads. He kissed her before they said goodnight; it was a sweet kiss that promised many more, and Clara giggled bashfully when she pulled away.

"See you Wednesday?"

"What's Wednesday?" he asked.

"My night off."

He grinned. "See you Wednesday."


	2. Connections

A married woman has an affair

Eleven/Clara & Twelve/Clara

M

* * *

"I know, I'm sorry... My flight's been delayed until tomorrow."

Clara fiddled with the stem of her martini glass as she listened to her husband talk on the other side of the line. She'd never really had a martini before, having always opted for fruity cocktails or a pint in uni, and sadly she discovered she wasn't a fan. She hadn't wanted to just mope about her hotel room, however, so she'd come down to the bar and decided to be daring and order something out of the ordinary.

Her life had become so ordinary.

It wasn't that she was unhappy—she had a good job, a gorgeous husband whom she adored and who doted on her, and a lovely new house in a great neighborhood in London. The problem was that she had to keep reminding herself that she had those things, like they dashed away any excuse she could have to feel unhappy with her life.

It wasn't that she was unhappy. She was bored.

Everything was just so predictable: wake up, go to work, come home, have dinner, go to bed. The weekends sometimes featured a trip to the cinema or the Lake District or a shopping venture with the girls, but Clara felt like the daring, experimental, carefree days of her youth were gone, only to be replaced by mundane security.

She wasn't ungrateful—she loved her mundane little life—but this trip to Paris was supposed to have breathed some freshness and novelty into it, and she'd been sorely disappointed. It wasn't her first time in the city, so the novelty itself was a miss, and it had rained buckets the entire weekend, keeping the crowds packed inside with their muddy feet and dripping umbrellas. She had frankly been eager to fly back home to London, but the rain clouds had kept her grounded. The airline put her in a rather cheap hotel near the airport, but it had a bar near the lobby where she decided to squeeze out what she could from her remaining time abroad.

"Alright, gotta go. Love ya," John said before he hung up the phone.

Clara smiled sadly and pulled the phone aware from her ear. "Love you, too."

A flat screen TV on the back wall hummed with the dull, monotonous rhythm of the nightly news relayed by a reporter with a smooth French accent. She reminded Clara of her French tutor from college. A few tables and chairs were scattered about the room, which was large by most Parisian standards, but Clara had opted to sit at the bar. That's what all of the lonely women did in the movies—sit alone at the bar with their cocktail, twiddling with the stem while they crossed their legs and leaned their cheeks against their palms. She kept waiting for something to happen, but she didn't know what.

That is, until a man took a seat next to her.

He kept one chair between them out of politeness—the bar was completely empty, so it would have read extremely creepy if he'd sat directly next to her. His relative proximity made him difficult to miss, and Clara found herself more than glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He was an older man—past fifty, at least—with silver hair and a thin face that still clung to a boyish sort of handsomeness. He was tall and lean, with thin limbs that extended into thin fingers and long feet in highly polished Italian loafers (Clara assumed they were Italian—they looked expensive, and all the expensive shoes came from Italy). He ordered a whisky on the rocks and she couldn't help but smile because he was Scottish; of course he'd order whisky.

He noticed her too, of course, but he didn't attempt to mask his curiosity. He folded his arms against the edge of the bar and leaned into it as he turned his head to take in the petite young woman sitting one stool away. She had the sort of face that made you do a double take, because no one ever expected to see someone that pretty in real life. She was extremely petite—the bar stools weren't that high, but her three inch heels still dangled several inches from the floor. Her eyes were dark and framed by even darker lashes, her skin was a rich caramel colour, and her lips had a fullness to them that betrayed the thin contours of her grin.

Their attraction to each other was instant.

"So," he began. "What's brought you to Paris?"

The barman placed his glass of whisky on the bar in front of him and then disappeared out the back—probably to have a cigarette. Everyone smoked in Paris.

"I came to visit an old friend from uni," she replied. "She's just helped set up an art gallery near Saint Germain."

"Ah, so you're English," he said after she finished speaking. "Thought you might be."

Clara laughed at that. "Do I look English?"

"You can always tell by looking at a person's mouth."

"Really?" she replied with polite disbelief.

He took a sip of his whisky and nodded. "The lines, the way they smile, the movements… they're all different when you're used to forming and shaping certain sounds with your lips."

Her eyes naturally fell to his lips. He noticed.

"So what is it _you_ do?" he asked.

"Schoolteacher. You?"

"Doctor—physics, not medicine."

He looked like a professor type. "Ah, nice. My husband's a doctor—medicine, not physics."

His gaze hesitantly fell to her left hand, then flicked back to her face. "Is he, now?" She nodded. "Why is it he's left you alone down in the bar?"

It took her a moment to catch what he meant. "Oh, he's back in London. Couldn't get out of work."

"Ah, I see. I suppose he doesn't get much time off."

Clara heaved a sigh and stared at her martini glass. "Not any predictable amount of time, no."

He smiled at her drink. "You actually going to drink that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Too dirty?"

"Too much gin."

He laughed the sort of laugh that curled his mouth to one side of his face. "Maybe you should have gone for vodka. What do you normally drink?"

The second the words 'vodka cranberry' left her lips, the barman walked back in and the unnamed doctor was signaling for him to bring one over.

"Oh, you don't have to…"

"Don't be silly. You don't want to spend your night in Paris' most glamorous airport hotel without a good drink."

Clara laughed, her teeth flashing as she bowed her head, shoulders shaking. He had a disarming sort of charm that made her laugh easily. He kept doing that, especially when he told her about visiting a lecture at the Université Pierre et Marie Curie, mostly because his imitation of the old physics lecturer's French accent left her in stitches.

"What's your name?" he asked with a smile when she finally stopped laughing.

She leaned her elbow on the bar and placed her palm against her burning cheek. "Clara."

"Clara. It's lovely to meet you."

She had about four more vodka cranberries during the course of their conversation, but she never learned his name; she just kept calling him Doctor and he let her. They rode the tiny lift to the third floor and he followed her towards her door to say goodnight, or at least that's what he said. They both knew what was about to happen. Clara didn't know why she didn't stop it.

He kissed her like he knew her, like they were old friends and he'd hungered for her since the day they first met. She clutched his shoulders as he leaned into her, tilting her backwards so that her lower body pressed into his. His hands slid up and down her back before tightly gripping her waist and she moaned softly against his lips.

"Come in?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes."

Clara fumbled with the key card and then they were inside, lips locked as the Doctor pushed her back against the door. Her lips parted when he palmed her breast and he slid his tongue against hers, making her shudder and gasp. Soon her top was off and he was kissing her, nipping and sucking as her fingertips dug into his scalp. They tripped over their fallen clothes on their way to the bed and then he was on top of her, inside of her, his skin flush against hers as he gasped and grunted against her cheek. Clara dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades and slammed her eyes shut as she focused on the feel of him inside her and the way his voice rumbled in her ear and the creaking of the bed with every thrust of their bodies. A strangled cry escaped her throat when she came and he breathed hotly into mouth when his release followed closely behind.

Clara's chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath, the room still spinning from the sex and the alcohol and now the paralyzing guilt that was washing over her. The Doctor lifted his head from where it was buried in the crook of her neck and kissed her right above her pulse point.

She flinched like he'd bitten her.

"What the matter?" he asked.

"Get up," she said.

"Are you okay?"

Tears spilled from her eyes as she pushed at his chest. "Get up—_get up_!"

The Doctor stood from the bed and Clara rolled to the end of it so she could land on her feet and run into the bathroom. She made it to the toilet before her stomach purged the four cranberry vodkas and her salmon salad from dinner into the bowl. The toilet flushed when she found the button on top, and then she lay in a heap on the cheap bathroom rug, her body shaking as she wept. She heard the door click open and then his shuffled footsteps and aching groan as he knelt on the floor beside her, but still she flinched in surprise when his warm hand fell onto the cool skin at her waist.

"I'm sorry," he said grimly.

She clutched her hair and curled into an even tighter ball, sobs wracking her body. Clara couldn't stop thinking of her sweet husband and his voice on the phone and how he always kissed her softly after they made love—and she'd just had sex with a complete stranger in an airport hotel room in Paris. Four vodka cranberries and her marriage vows went down the drain.

She wanted to protest when the Doctor lifted her off the floor, but instead she buried her head against his shoulder and wept while he carried her back towards the bed. She felt the pillow hit her cheek and the sheets drape over her skin, and then his warmth was gone.

Despite the fact that the world was spinning around her, Clara sat up and clutched the sheet to her chest. "What are you doing?"

He was in his pants, now struggling to get his trousers on. "I'm leaving."

She hastily swiped the tears from her cheeks and sniffed through her stuffy nose. "Why?"

He stopped and gave her a pitying look. "Why do you think?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I knew," she retorted.

The Doctor heaved a sigh and practically fell onto the edge of the bed at her feet, his gaze drifting towards the window. "You're married."

The words felt like a knife to her chest. Clara bowed her head and then frowned up at him. "So are you—you've got a tan line on your ring finger. Did you take it off when you saw me?"

He looked at her, his eyes somehow older than they'd seemed earlier. "Yes."

Clara hadn't expected him to be so honest. She could only stare at him, eyelids blinking rapidly as he returned his attention to redressing.

"But my wife died six years ago. She's not waiting for me back in London like your husband."

Clara clutched her face and fell back onto her pillow with a pathetic sob. Moments later, the edge of the mattress sank beside her and the Doctor placed his hands at her wrists.

"Hey, look at me," he said in a tone that contrasted the harshness of his previous statement. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pursued you. You told me you were married."

"Thank you," she said dully, rubbing her face before pulling her hands away so she could look at him. "But I am not a victim here."

"I never said you were." He touched the side of her face, his thumb brushing away stray tears. "Does he work a lot?"

She shut her eyes and nodded. "That's no excuse…"

"No, but it explains why you miss him so much."

Clara wrapped her fingers around his wrist, clinging to the kindness he offered her.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have approached you," he said again. "I could tell you were lonely."

"I wasn't lonely; I was alone."

He nodded. "If you say so."

"I think you're the lonely one."

His expression remained the same. "I can't argue with that."

* * *

The dull roar that greeted her on the aircraft hurt her ears. Clara kept her head bowed, sunglasses still perched on her nose as she shuffled behind a portly woman with a rolling suitcase who kept stopping suddenly, causing Clara to knock her toes into the hard case. It was the sudden stopping and the delaying of her sitting down in her seat that bothered her more than the jarring knock to her toes.

She scanned the numbers above the seats for 32G and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that she was next to the window. She waited for the woman in front of her to move again so she could get to her seat, her gaze drifting about the cabin until it settled on the strikingly familiar face seated three rows behind her.

He saw her at the same time, but Clara immediately looked away. Once she was able to get to her seat, she shoved her bag in the compartment overhead and then plopped down hard enough to rattle her bones.

Her heart was racing. How could she have been so foolish not to realise that the Scottish man staying in the hotel had been pushed to the same flight to London as she had?

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she pulled it out of her jacket to see a text from her husband. Tears sprung to her eyes.

_In my seat waiting to take off. See you tonight x_

She hit the send button and then pressed the top of the phone to her lips. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered as she closed her eyes.

Three seats behind her, the Doctor frowned when he heard her sniffle.

* * *

The sound of ice rattling in plastic cups and peanut bags crinkling pierced the white noise of the pressurised cabin. Clara had just finished her tomato juice when her neighbour in the aisle seat got up to visit the lavatory. She was considering getting up at the same time for the sake of convenience, but then the seat was promptly occupied by the man she'd spent the entire flight (and the entire evening before it) trying not to think about.

"Hi," he said carefully.

Clara shrank away from him, but tried to sit up straight when she caught herself. "What are you doing?"

"I wanted to see how you were."

"Bloody awful. Thanks for asking."

Despite her frosty tone, he seemed to settle even more into the seat next to her. He stared at the paused in-flight movie on the screen in front of him and pressed his lips together.

"I have to ask," he said. "Because last night, we didn't…" He cleared his throat. "We didn't use birth control."

Clara wanted to break the window and jump out of the plane. "I'm going to take the pill when I get home."

"The morning after..?"

"Yes. Please, could you leave?"

Neither looked at the other. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you."

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking into the bearded man who was returning to the seat he'd just vacated. Clara thought about the Doctor for the rest of the trip, but he was a lingering thought in the back of her mind while she worried instead of what she'd do when she saw John again.

Should she tell him? Should she lie, and pretend like everything was alright? She wanted to tell him, but wondered if any good would come of it, or it would just alleviate her guilt.

Frankly, she didn't think anything could alleviate her guilt at this point.

She didn't see the Doctor again, but she'd made a point not to look behind her or to linger in the terminal before catching the train back to town.

The Doctor saw her, though. He didn't want her to know he was following her, so he hung back several paces as he watched her walk towards the trains into town. If you'd asked him why he continued to follow her even though she clearly didn't want to see him again, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. He was worried about her, certainly. She was a young woman whose life he'd complicated by taking advantage of her loneliness, and he knew the guilt was eating her up.

He hadn't wanted that. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, he'd just wanted to make her laugh, to put his hands on her waist, to feel her pulse thrum beneath his lips as he thrust into her and made her cry out. He only wanted her to help him feel less alone.

She stopped once they reached the baggage claim area as if she'd hit an invisible barrier. The Doctor fidgeted on the escalator, worried that she'd turn around and find him watching her, but then he saw a young man with rather swishy hair standing about ten feet across from her with a sign that read 'Mrs Clara Smith'—her husband. Dr Smith crossed the space between them and pulled her into his arms (clearly he had surprised her by coming to pick her up) and when he twirled her around, Clara's eyes locked with the Doctor's, and he flinched. He immediately turned away and headed towards the queue for a taxi.

* * *

Later that night, John was lying in bed with his long limbs starfished around him while Clara brushed her teeth in the bathroom. The doors that separated them were open, so he could hear the faint buzz of her electric toothbrush while she stared questioningly at her reflection in the mirror.

"I'm still rather cross at Rory for only choosing to announce today that he could have covered my shifts this weekend. I would have loved to see Nina again. And spend the weekend in Paris with my beautiful wife," he added with a grin.

Clara smiled sadly and took a deep breath when she felt that gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach. She considered taking an antacid. "I would have loved that."

She shut off the light and then stood in the doorway of the bedroom, smiling at his ridiculous limbs sticking out in every direction. She forgot about the night before for a moment as she crawled into bed next to him, nudging his arms and legs like she always did to make some room for herself in the bed.

"One of these days you'll learn to share," she teased.

Clara slid underneath the covers and then released a nervous laugh when he sat up abruptly and hugged her to him. She closed her eyes and gripped the back of his t-shirt as he pressed light kisses to her scalp.

"I don't like coming home when you're not here," he breathed into her hair. "Never leave me, Clara."

She couldn't breathe. He made comments like that all the time, but normally they warmed her heart and she would kiss him until that lingering sadness in his eyes flickered out. Now all she wanted to do was scream.

_Of course I'll never leave you. Please never ask me to._

Clara kissed him passionately, her love for him flooding her senses as his hands pulled her snugly against his body. He teased her for breathing so heavily and she wished it was because she was turned on, but she was struggling to keep from having a panic attack. She wanted him—she loved him—but she felt like she didn't deserve him anymore, and that broke her heart. She wanted to fix this, but she didn't know if it was even possible.

* * *

School started two weeks later. Clara hadn't been sleeping well, and she told everyone (including John) that it was the stress of getting everything ready for the new school year. It wasn't completely a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. She dressed for parents' night with a deep sense of dread because she would have to smile and answer questions about grading procedures and all the things parents expected her to do in order to get their children into a good university. Like that was solely her responsibility.

She was cleaning the white board when her new students and their parents started trickling in. It was an odd custom, parents' night, especially for children at this age, but it was something the school had embraced for the past twenty years. She wasn't about to knock tradition.

Clara shook several hands and plastered on her best smile as she was introduced to men and women she hoped never to see again. The worst part of her job was all the paperwork and planning, followed closely by meetings with parents who wanted to know what she was going to do about their son or daughter's poor marks in her class.

The classroom was full of parents when she saw him enter from the door at the back. He stopped when he saw her and stared with an owlish expression of shock that she knew she was mirroring. He looked the same as he had in Paris—he was even wearing the same blue jacket with red lining. Clara blinked several times before realising that she needed to address the crowd and was never so grateful to be asked questions about the curriculum for the upcoming term in her life.

He hung back while the rest of the crowd left for the next classroom tour. Clara pretended not to notice him until they were the last two people in the room. They were standing on opposite sides of the rows of desks when he finally spoke.

"You're my daughter's teacher."

Clara stared at the floor. _Of course she was_.

"I didn't know," he assured her.

She shook her head. "Neither did I. But then again, I never knew your name."

"Iain," he said. "Iain Brown."

Clara huffed a little laugh and then stared at him. "Why are you still here?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Do you feel responsible for my well-being?" she asked rather snidely.

"Yes."

She swallowed. He tensed up and then quickly wove through the desks so that he could stand in front of her.

"I don't want to butt into your life, Clara, because I know I've done a fair job of that already. But I don't want you to let what happened eat you up because I can tell you're a good person and that you love your husband."

She inhaled sharply. "Please leave."

"No, please—let me finish."

"You are finished. Please leave now."

"Clara—"

"_What_?" she shouted suddenly, the word bursting from her lips. "What do you expect to say that will make this all better? Can you turn back time so that I never cheated on my husband? Never had to sneak out of the house to go to the pharmacy for the morning after pill? It comes in two doses, you know. He caught me taking the second later that night and I lied and said it was paracetemol. I've never lied to my husband, _ever_, and now that's all I do. And it's eating me up. And it would be so bloody easy to blame it all on you, but I can't—because I did everything as much as you did, and now I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror…"

She struggled to breathe. The Doctor placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her towards the nearest desk so she could sit down and then bent forward so he could cup her cheeks and look her in the eye.

"This doesn't make you a bad person, Clara."

"Yes—yes it does."

"No, it doesn't. You're stupid, ok?" He laughed lightly. "You made a stupid mistake and you can't move past it because you want to bury it, but you can't. It'll kill you, Clara. It'll kill you."

She was sobbing. He brushed the tears from her face and then pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek that was only supposed to last a moment, but then she grabbed either side of his face and pulled him to her for a kiss that made him forget to breathe.

It wasn't that it was a good kiss—in fact, it was sloppy and wet and relatively terrible—but the fact that she was kissing him at all had shocked him. To his utter horror, he kissed her back until he remembered who she was and what he was meant to be doing and he pulled away.

"I'm sorry…" she said breathlessly, her eyes wide with shock.

"No, don't—"

She touched her lips. "I don't know what I'm doing."

He couldn't look her in the eye; he just nodded and started backing out of the room. "I'll leave—I'll leave."

She didn't ask him not to.

* * *

Oddly enough, she didn't cry any more after that night—her guilt had somehow gotten locked inside of her.

* * *

John was starting to notice something off in her behaviour. He often had to ask her a question twice because her mind was a million miles away, and the smiles she gave him were usually tight and sad.

She was in the kitchen washing the dishes one night when John sidled up behind her and kissed her neck, his arms looping about her middle. Clara's hands had stilled in the tepid, soapy water and her entire body went stiff. It was her lack of response that finally made him pull back and look at her.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing," she lied.

"Clara…"

She turned off the tap and then stared at the bubbles popping on the surface of the water before turning to face him. "John, do you love me?"

"Clara, of course—"

She shut her eyes and shook her head rapidly. "No, I shouldn't have asked that. It's not fair. I take it back."

A deep lined formed between his eyes. "What's going on?"

Clara placed her palms on his chest as an involuntary whimper made her lips tremble. Immediately concerned, John placed his hands at her waist and she closed her eyes.

"I don't deserve you," she finally said.

"Nonsense. Of course you do."

"No, I don't, John. You don't understand how desperately I love you. How much I feel you in my life. How vital you are to me."

He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear as he struggled to understand what was happening.

"John, I did something terrible… and I don't expect you to forgive me."

His eyes grew impossibly wide. "Clara, it's OK—whatever it is, you can tell me."

"No, I know—I know, I _have_ to tell you because it's ruining everything. It's ruined everything… And it's not fair for me to keep this from you any longer." She lowered her hands from his chest. "John… That night my flight was delayed in Paris… I slept with someone."

He lowered his hands to his sides and took a step back. A sob tore through her and she covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I don't know why, I swear—I really don't. I was feeling disappointed and alone, and he was just there, and we were drinking and it was so _stupid_. John, I've never done anything so stupid in my entire life, and oh god, you didn't deserve it. I'm so sorry. John, I'm so, so sorry…"

He turned sharply away from her and placed his hands on the refrigerator, his chest heaving as he took deep, slow breaths. Clara shrank back against the counter, unsure of what was happening. Was he going to shout? Would he hit her? She wouldn't blame him if he did.

But what he did was worse: he started to cry.

It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under her and she was falling. His shoulders shook and his breathing was ragged, but otherwise John didn't move. Clara's face crumpled miserably, but when he turned to face her she struggled to regain her composure.

His cheeks glistened with tears. "Do you even love me?"

"Oh, my god," she sobbed. "God, John—_yes_. Of_ course_ I love you."

"Do you love him?"

The question was so absurd that she laughed. Apparently that wasn't a good enough answer, because his expression hardened.

"No, of course not," she assured him.

"Are you going to leave me, Clara?" he asked, his voice breaking on her name.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I don't want to lose you, John. Please, please forgive me—_please_."

The entire scene was so absurd. Clara couldn't recall a time she'd ever seen her husband cry, not in the five years that they'd known each other. She was still in her pantsuit from work, the purple one that had reminded her of the jacket he always wore. He had just woken up after a long night shift at the hospital and was still in his pyjamas, and he was looking at her with the same expression she saw every time she looked in the mirror—like he didn't recognise her anymore.

"I was wrong, and I know that I've hurt you," she continued when he didn't reply. "If I could go back and change it, I would. You're the only man I want and I hate that I've ruined the perfect thing we had… I'm _so_ sorry, John…"

She dissolved into a fit of sobs. Immediately, John stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her so tightly that it felt like he was trying to keep her from falling apart. Clara clutched his grey t-shirt and then stood on her tip toes so she could wrap her arms around his neck. He wept into her hair and she kissed his neck over and over, muttering apologies against his skin until he told her to stop.

"I forgive you," he said shakily.

"Are you sure?"

He pulled back and cupped her face between his hands as he stared into her eyes. "I'm sure."

She closed her eyes and exhaled so heavily that her breath shook on the next inhale. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They both laughed. Clara clutched him to her and he hugged her back tightly, the tension still present in his muscles. They went into the bedroom and made love. John was rough at first, and she invited it. She wanted him to punish her for what she'd done, but his touch quickly grew gentle, and he kissed her tenderly while her hands rubbed soothing circles up and down his back.

He had forgiven her, but the thought of her with another man was always on his mind. It was his turn to grow distant, to make excuses for his wandering thoughts that neither of them bought because they both knew what he was thinking about. He pictured some sleazy Frenchman kissing her neck and muttering sweet nothings into her ear while his fingers snaked up her thigh. He thought of her moaning for another man, but that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was knowing that she'd smiled at him invitingly, that she'd laughed at his jokes and probably touched his arm, asked him questions about his day like she usually did for him. It wasn't her body he couldn't stand her sharing; it was her heart.

They were having a fight a few weeks later when he forgot to pay the credit card bill on time. It happened every now and again when he wasn't paying attention. They got charged an outrageous fee, but even though they could afford it, it drove Clara mad and all she could do was see red. The tension between them was already high, so her response was disproportionate, and so was his.

Clara kept shouting even after she'd started crying. Finally, she asked if he was treating her like this to punish her.

"Punish you?" he replied in disbelief. "_Punish_ you?"

She felt compelled to say it. "I slept with another man."

"Yes, I hadn't forgotten," he spat.

She clutched her heart and shut her eyes, face contorting miserably. "You haven't forgiven me."

"No, I have," he said, his tone still biting. "I have, but it's not an easy thing to forget."

She sank onto the sofa. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

John heaved a sigh. "I know." He walked around the coffee table and sat next to her, his elbows perched on his knees. "Clara, do you love me?"

"Yes," she replied almost resentfully. "Of course I do."

"Do you still want to be my wife?"

She took his left hand between hers and clutched it to her heart. "Yes."

He gripped her hand firmly and looked into her eyes. "Then do me a favour… Promise me you will never, ever do anything like that again."

She placed her free hand on his shoulder as she struggled to form words around shaky gasps. "I won't. I promise you, I won't."

He kissed her. "And neither will I."

"No—_you_ don't need to promise. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes, I've got to promise—we both do. We're in this together, or not at all."

Clara circled her arms around his neck and clutched him tightly. She told him she loved him over and over and he clung to her as they both wept into each other's shoulders. When they pulled back, he couldn't help but laugh at her.

"You look terrible," he teased, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Shut up."

He smiled as he brushed back her hair. "Let's go for a walk."

She wiped her eyes. "Are you sure you want to be seen with me?"

"Definitely."

* * *

The sun was setting behind the trees but the sky was still blue, save for the thin white clouds that spread across it like the strokes of a giant paintbrush. Clara looped her arm through John's as they walked, both talking and laughing about everything and nothing. The leaves were starting to fall; they crunched underneath their feet as they made their way down the familiar path towards the park, where the grass was green and muddy from last night's rain.

Clara felt relieved. She still bore the guilt of what she'd done and was sure she'd never forgive herself, but she could feel them moving past it, or rather incorporating it as best as they could into the life they would continue to lead together. She was so lucky to be married to a man who understood human error, who knew that she loved him despite her weakness. She was lucky to be married to a man who saw her greatest flaw and loved her anyway.

They stopped to allow a jogger to cross their path and that's when she saw him. He was about thirty feet in front of them coming in the opposite direction, his hand gripping the lead attached to a small black dog that panted heavily as it trotted along. Clara froze and John stopped and stared at her.

"What?" he asked.

She stared ahead, unsure of what she should say or do. She could lie and say she just got distracted by something, that she thought she recognised someone but it was just a stranger, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't lie to him when he'd forgiven her.

He didn't even know the whole truth of it yet.

"John… That's him."

"What's him?"

She swallowed hard. "The man coming this way with his dog. That's the man… from Paris."

John's head whipped in the direction of the Doctor and she watched his expression shift as he took him in.

"Him? That's… You're joking."

"No."

"He's twice your age."

"Probably. I never asked…"

"Blimey, you _must_ have been drunk."

"_Shh_, he's getting closer."

"What's he doing here? I thought he was in Paris."

"We were on the same flight. He lives in London… and… his daughter goes to my school."

* * *

The Doctor had seen them up ahead—they were hard to miss—and while the idea of turning on his heel and running in the opposite direction appealed greatly, they had already spotted him. He could still run, but his daughter's dog had more control over the direction they took than he did. The unforgiving bastard eventually came to a stop in front of Mr and Mrs Smith, who stood there like two statues ready to welcome him to the gates of hell.

"Hello," he said to them both. His eyes fell first to Clara, but he didn't want to look at her too much in front of her husband, so he looked up at him. His features were rigid, anger seeping through his pores. He knew, then. The Doctor looked down at the dog sitting merrily on its worthless backside, panting up at them all. "This is Barkley."

He didn't know why he was talking, let alone introducing them to the bloody dog.

Clara tugged on her husband's arm. "We should go."

The Doctor felt something akin to disappointment stir in his chest, but before she could tug him away, Dr Smith (the Doctor still didn't know his name) spoke.

"You… slept with my wife."

"The dog will bite you if you hit me."

No one knew how to react to that—not even the Doctor. Clara's gaze had been lowered shamefully, but her eyes flicked to his after he spoke. She looked like she was trying to keep from smiling.

He wished he could say he hadn't thought about her every night since that night in Paris. He wished he could look at her right now and not want to know what it was like to kiss her. He wished this because he knew she already had someone she wanted; she didn't need him.

"John, please," she whispered when he didn't move.

John fixed the Doctor with an unblinking gaze. "Stay away from my wife."

Clara's eyes met his briefly before she and John brushed past him. He turned and watched them go, his heart breaking for them, for himself.

Why couldn't things be simple?

* * *

Clara was tempted to change the mark, but the fact was that Emily Brown had failed the first two tests of the term. If she didn't turn things around, she was bound to fail the entire course, and it was Clara's job to keep her students from failing. At least, that's how the parents and the school board saw it.

It was school policy that teachers notify parents when a student is at risk for failing. Clara stared at the mobile number printed next to Iain Brown's name and took several deep breaths before dialling the number and waiting for the dial tone.

He picked up after two rings. "Hello."

"Dr Brown, this is Mrs Smith, Emily's teacher."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Perhaps pretending like they could operate within the confines of a simple teacher-parent relationship had been a mistake.

Regardless, he played along. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm afraid so. Could we schedule a time this week to discuss Emily's exam scores?"

Her heart was racing. She gave him some times that would work for her and he selected 4pm next Wednesday. Clara's fingers shook as she scribbled the date and time on her desktop planner. "I'll see you then."

* * *

She didn't see John for another two days due to their work schedules conflicting. It wasn't always easy, being married to a doctor.

They went out for lunch on Saturday. As she was stabbing her salad with a fork, she told him that she had a parent-teacher meeting with Iain Brown, the man from the park.

"Couldn't you have just told him over the phone?"

"That's not the procedure."

"Damn the procedure," he scowled.

Clara placed her hand over his but John pulled his away. He started fidgeting. "I know you're upset."

"Yes, I am upset."

"But you don't have to worry."

"No? Last time you were alone with him, the two of you slept together."

Clara cradled the sides of her head. "I can promise you, that will not happen again."

"I know it won't," he snapped. He sighed and then said more gently, "No. I know it won't."

"I'm so sorry, my love."

"I know—I know."

He lifted her palm to his lips and kissed it, his thumb stroking her knuckles as he offered her a reassuring smile.

* * *

The Doctor straightened his jacket and sighed as he passed a group of students in the corridor. He stopped outside of Mrs Smith's classroom and heaved another anxious sigh before knocking on the open door. She looked up from her computer, a hesitant smile on her lips.

"Come in."

He took a seat across from her, carefully meeting his eyes even though he felt like one wrong look would summon her husband and he'd be beaten within an inch of his life.

They spoke about Emily's performance in the class. The Doctor had to confess he wasn't surprised—his daughter was still coping with the death of her mother, something that was made more difficult by her turbulent adolescent years. Clara was warm and understanding, exactly as he'd imagined she'd be. She did, however, express a deep concern that Emily improve because she couldn't make any exceptions.

"I lost my mum when I was younger," she said in a moment of surprising candour. "I was about Emily's age. I'm sure it's hard on you…"

They stared at each other in silence. The Doctor couldn't take it anymore.

"How are you?"

She lowered her eyes, her posture stiffening. "I'm fine."

"Yeah?"

She straightened a stack of papers on her desk and cleared her throat. "Yes."

"Things are OK between you and your husband?"

She looked at him, but not with anger. "Yes."

The Doctor nodded and stared at a little apple shaped ornament on her desk. "I take it after our meeting in the park that he knows what happened in Paris."

"Yes."

"And about the incident on parents' night."

She pressed her lips together.

His heart raced. "Oh."

Clara splayed her hands on top of the desk and stared at her fingers; so did he. She then pulled them towards her body, hugging herself, and asked, "What about you? How have you been?"

He hadn't been prepared for that question. "Fine—fine."

"You don't have to lie."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?" she asked, genuinely concerned.

Once again, his mouth made sounds without consulting him. "Because I still want to kiss you whenever I see you."

Clara breathed a little laugh and returned her gaze to her hands in her lap. "You're a good man, Dr Brown."

"No, I'm not."

She nodded. "Yes, you are. You could have shagged me and then left me alone in that hotel room, but you've been… really kind to me. And I'm grateful."

He didn't know what to say.

"I just wish I could do the same for you, but… I can't, and I'm sorry."

"I understand."

"Good."

Their eyes met, and for a moment they were back in that hotel bar, both of them alone until the moment their eyes met. It wasn't just physical attraction they shared, but a deep connection forged by two people who recognised the humanity in each other. They said goodbye to each other that afternoon and never saw each other again, but they thought of each other often, and always with fondness.


	3. You'll Be Mine

A prostitute and her client

Twelve/Clara

M

* * *

Clara's knuckles rapped against the door to room 208, her heart hammering in her chest as she waited for her client to appear on the other side. This was the worst part—actually, there were a lot of bad parts to her job—but she hated how nervous and scared she felt every time she waited for that door to open. She used to wish for a young, attractive man to greet her, but she'd discovered quite quickly that the older men treated her better.

That was one of many reasons she heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the Doctor standing on the other side of the door.

Her lips spread into a genuine smile when his eyes met hers. "Doctor," she said. "I'm starting to think you like me."

He held the door open wide and stepped aside. "What would give you that idea?"

Clara shrugged. "Could be the standing Wednesday appointment."

She walked in and set her bag on the nightstand while the Doctor locked the door. He ambled around the corner with his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, wearing a sheepish expression that didn't belong on the face of someone who's fucked her on the bathroom counter.

"How long are you in town for this time?" she asked curiously as she closed the space between them. She leaned into his body and slid her fingers up and down the lapel of his jacket, grinning as she peered up at him through her eyelashes. He released a sigh through his nose and then swept her hair away from her neck. Clara glanced up at the ceiling when he pressed a soft kiss above her pulse point.

"Just until the weekend," he replied in a hush. "Another bloody board meeting."

Clara giggled and then closed her eyes on a sigh when he kissed her again, his hands lowering to her waist while he trailed kisses towards her ear. Her jaw dropped when his lips hit certain spots that made her whole body shudder, and the Doctor wrapped his arms around her in an amorous embrace that left her clutching his shoulders.

"I've missed you," he said softly.

Clara's heart pounded rapidly in her chest. The Doctor's hands roamed her body, his touch fuelled by genuine adoration. She didn't know how to respond to it, so she kissed him playfully on the lips and then pulled back with a grin. "I've missed you too."

He smiled sadly and touched the side of her face, his palm warm against her cheek. "I'm sure you never spare me a second thought."

That wasn't true, but she didn't feel she ought to contradict him.

He guided her to the bed where she lay back against the pillows and parted her thighs so he could lie on top of her, his left hand slipping under the short skirt of her dress to stroke the smooth skin above her thigh highs while he kissed her.

It was hard not to grow attached to the ones who were sweet to her. The Doctor liked to kiss her, to caress her body and tell her how beautiful she was. He made her feel everything he felt. He never offered her drugs or asked her to put his cock in her mouth, which was what the majority of her clients wanted. Half the time she wondered if the Doctor even planned on removing his trousers at all; he was usually content just to kiss her.

It was usually Clara gripping him through his trousers or unfastening his belt to signal that they should get on with it. She enjoyed the kissing and the touching, but there came a point where even she couldn't wait any longer. She suspected that the Doctor waited it out so that she'd be more eager for him.

"May I take your dress off?" he asked breathlessly.

"So polite," she teased.

She arched her back off the bed as he slid the zipper down, but had to stop him when he started peeling the straps down her shoulders.

"_Uh-uh_—hips."

"What?"

"It's got to go over my head or you'll rip it."

"Ah…"

They smiled at each other once he finally wrangled the dress over her head and let it fall to the floor. The Doctor allowed his gaze to drift over her bare breasts, toned abs, and black-lace encased hips before sinking against her and kissing her again. Clara hummed against his lips and then sighed breathily as he trailed kisses down her neck, between her breasts, and then wrapped his lips around a pert nipple. Her fingers wove through his hair as he lavished her with attention.

_Sometimes I think I should be paying you_, she thought with a grin as he gripped her other breast while continuing to nip and suck at the other. She could never say such a thing out loud; he always hated being reminded that she was only there because he paid her.

There were actually a lot of things she felt she couldn't say out loud to him.

Clara helped him unbutton his shirt and then lay back against the pillow, chest heaving while she watched him unbuckle his belt. Once he was naked, he hooked his fingers through the sides of her thong and peeled it down her legs before positioning himself between her thighs.

He pushed in gently and she moaned.

Clara liked the feel of him inside her. She grasped the smooth skin of his backside as he rocked into her, a light whimper catching in her throat after a particularly deep thrust. The Doctor liked it when she gasped and sighed, but sometimes if it sounded too much like he was hurting her, he'd stop and lift his hand to her cheek.

She breathed a little laugh when it happened this time. "That's a good sound, trust me."

"I don't want to hurt you."

She blinked rapidly. "I know."

He kissed her and then resumed thrusting into her, Clara's eyes slamming shut as the bed creaked beneath them. Her hands clutched the back of his neck and the small of his back, his muscles moving tightly beneath her fingers as he grunted and groaned in her ear. He kept taking deep breaths like he wanted to say something in the heat of the moment, but he never did. A few weeks ago, Clara guessed that he wanted to say her name, but she didn't share that with her clients. She'd often wondered what it would sound like on the Doctor's lips.

Her body was shaking when he finally sank on top of her. Clara smiled as he breathed hotly in her ear and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him to her heart. Their hearts were pounding so hard in their ribcages, it was as if they wanted to break free to be with each other.

The air conditioner hummed loudly by the window while he kissed her neck. He liked to kiss her neck. Clara smoothed her palms up and down his long, lean back and marvelled at how content she felt with him on top of her, inside of her—this man whose name she didn't even know.

"I wish I'd met you in the supermarket," he mumbled against her skin. "Or the bank, or at some party. Sometimes I think hiring you was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life."

She shouldn't encourage him to say things like that, but she was curious. "Why's that?"

He kissed her cheek. "Because I'd like to take you to dinner."

Clara shut her eyes and took a deep breath before affecting a playful giggle. "You'd be spending money either way."

"Nonsense. All the money you've gotten out of me? You can pay for your own meal."

She laughed genuinely at that. "Why would you want to take me to dinner?"

"I would think that's obvious."

"Humour me, Doctor; I can't read your mind."

His blue eyes were dark in the dim light when they locked with hers. Her smile melted off her face.

"Because I'd very much like the opportunity to fall in love with you."

Clara pressed her lips together and glanced away from him, feeling tears threatening to form in her eyes. The Doctor interpreted this as polite disgust. He pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

"Ah, well. A man can dream."

Clara closed her eyes and did just that: she dreamed of him picking her up at her flat and taking her to a nice restaurant for dinner. She imagined them laughing—he always made her laugh—and then he'd put his coat on her shoulders when she got cold. He'd hold her hand as they walked back to her flat and she would kiss him on the doorstep before inviting him in. She would fall asleep in his arms and wake up to find him curled up behind her in the morning, his arm around her waist.

She'd never had that, and it wasn't until she met the Doctor that she even realised it was possible.

"Doctor?" she said shakily.

"Yes?"

She pressed her lips against his ear. "My name is Clara."

He pulled back to look at her, hope etched on his features.

"And I like Italian food."


	4. In the Interim

Boss/Intern AU

Twelve/Clara

K+

* * *

Clara rushed into the conference room just as everyone was finding their seats. Fifteen pair of eyes turned to her, and she flashed them a breathless smile.

"Sorry."

Mentally cringing, Clara found an open chair and took her seat. She pulled out her notepad, pen, and audio recorder and set them up neatly in the space in front of her, along with her water bottle that she wished were a cup of hot tea. There was a projector set up with a slide titled 'Intern Orientation 2014' and Clara felt her heart race with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

She didn't go to the mixer the night before because her train had been delayed from Blackpool, and everyone seemed to know each other already. Some even seemed to be nursing hangovers, and it was with a hollow feeling in her chest that Clara realised she already had to catch up on her first day.

The door to the conference room burst open as an older man strode through carrying a briefcase that was unceremoniously tossed onto the table in front of her. Clara and several other people sitting near her jumped back and turned their eyes to the man standing at the head of the table.

He was tall and thin, with an equally thin face and a mop of salt and pepper curls cropped close to his head. He ran a hand over his face as he surveyed everyone sitting at the table, his gaze lingering a second longer on Clara. She sat up straight and tried not to look fazed—she didn't know who this was, but she'd guessed that he was the intern supervisor and he'd met everyone last night. He was probably wondering who the hell she was.

"Good morning," he said in a voice that wasn't exactly loud, but a blonde girl sitting near the back of the table groaned and clutched her head. "I'm Dr John Smith, but you can call me the Doctor. I will be your supervisor during your time at TARDIS Industries."

Clara reached for her audio recorder and pressed record; she'd made it a habit of recording all of her lectures in university, so it was without a second thought that she'd brought the device to her first day of (unpaid) work.

"He's kind of hot," Clara heard a young woman mutter behind her while the Doctor continued to introduce them to the company.

"You only like him 'cause he's Scottish," a young man replied.

Clara glanced at the couple—they seemed like a couple—and smiled inwardly when the redhead elbowed the boy in the ribs.

"You will not succeed in this program _if you do not pay attention_," the Doctor said sharply.

It took Clara a moment to realise that comment was directed at her, and she returned her attention to the man practically glaring at her. "Sorry," she muttered.

The Doctor paced the width of the table as he talked, never once consulting the slideshow on the board or pausing for breath. He seemed equal parts eager and impatient—Clara couldn't tell if he wanted to get this over with because he was looking forward to the next few weeks or dreading them.

"Are there any questions?"

Clara's hand shot in the air. He raised an eyebrow. "Miss Oswald."

Her cheeks turned pink. So he knew who she was, then. "Will we be assigned projects on a daily basis, or will they be on-going?"

The Doctor smiled—well, sort of smiled. His lips tightly stretched across his face before he glanced at the rest of the room.

"_That_, ladies and gentlemen, is an excellent question."

Clara sat up a little in her chair and scribbled some notes on his response, ignoring the muttered jibes from her co-workers about her being the 'teacher's pet.'

Once they were dismissed, Clara grabbed her things and rushed over to the Doctor while the rest of the interns headed to their stations in the pen.

"Doctor? Sorry, I had a few more questions."

He sighed. "Yes? What is it?"

Clara blinked, no longer sure if she ought to ask him or not. These were the questions she'd felt too embarrassed to ask in front of the group after the 'teacher's pet' comment. "Um, I just wanted to know if we're allowed coffee breaks? Or if we could get a tour of the rest of the offices?" She grimaced. "Should I be asking someone else?"

His gaze flicked up and down her face. "I'm the intern supervisor—who else would you ask?"

"Um…"

"Coffee breaks are fine, but try to limit yourself to one or two a day. As for an office tour…" He flicked his wrist up to glance at his watch. "I can probably make time for you around 4:30 this afternoon. Meet me here and we'll work our way down to the second floor offices."

Clara nodded. "Right, yeah. Great. I'll see if anyone else is interested."

The Doctor paused while grabbing his briefcase from the table and spared her a glance before staring at the door and giving a sharp nod. "Right, do that."

And then he walked out of the room disturbing the air so much that the ends of her hair and the sheer fabric of her blouse fluttered after him.

* * *

Clara stood in the doorway to the conference room with a two paper cups of coffee warming her hands. She'd picked them up at the café across the road right before she was supposed to meet the Doctor and now she felt like she should toss one in the bin so she didn't look like she was a kiss arse for buying the boss coffee. Then again, he was taking time out of his day to show her around the rest of the offices…

Oh. She'd forgotten to ask if anyone else wanted to come along.

'Forgotten' might not be the right word—Clara felt extremely out of place with the rest of the interns and didn't know how to talk to any of them. It wasn't that she was shy—Clara usually made a good impression on people and she relied on her natural likeability to navigate social situations—but everyone already seemed to have their groups, their mates, and she always felt like she was interrupting a conversation when she talked to someone else. It was sort of like going to a school dance to find she was the only one without a partner.

The lift dinged to her right, and Clara stood up from the wall she was leaning against when she spotted the Doctor striding towards her. There was something very menacing in the way he walked, something intimidating in the neutral expression on his face. Either this was the most miserable man on the planet or he was incredibly overworked. Perhaps one fed the other.

His eyebrows lifted as he neared her. "No one else?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Good. I hate shepherding. Is this for me?" he asked, pointing to the cup in her left hand.

He spoke so fast it was difficult for her to keep up. "Er…"

"You can say yes; I won't think you're a kiss arse."

She handed him the cup and he accepted it, giving it a sniff.

"Cream and sugar?"

She pulled two creamers and two packets of sugar from the inner pocket of her handbag. The Doctor grabbed the sugars and offered her a little smile before popping off the lid to empty the sugar packs inside. The tension in his body eased as he sighed, and Clara watched him curiously as he returned the lid to the top of the cup.

"Right. Let's go."

They rode the lift to the sixth floor where they practically sprinted up and down the corridors. He pointed lazily to offices that they passed and rattled off a list of names and job titles that Clara would struggle to remember later. By the time they returned to the floor where she was working, it was five minutes after five and everyone had already left for the day.

"They get out of here quick, don't they?" Clara said with some amusement.

The Doctor pulled on his suit jacket. "What's there to stick around for?"

She shrugged. "Just an observation."

He checked his watch. Clara noticed that he was always fidgeting, always acting like he was late for something. He reminded her of the rabbit from _Alice in Wonderland_. "So? First day go well then?"

Clara flashed a smile. She had trouble logging into her e-mail account, she didn't understand the program they were supposed to be using, and none of the instructions for her project seemed to make any sense. But she didn't want him to know she was drowning. "Yeah, good."

"Excellent. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

He dashed to the lifts and pressed the button. Clara watched him with a frown and glanced around awkwardly before walking up behind him. She needed to take the lift too.

The Doctor glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and then returned his gaze to the lift once the doors opened. They both stepped inside and then Clara pressed the button for the ground floor, the doors shutting to encase them in awkward silence. She watched the analogue dial over the doors drop from the four to the three and wondered how old these lifts were.

Just about that time, the carriage came to a grinding halt and nearly knocked them both off their feet.

"Uh… What just happened?"

An alarm sounded—a shrill, vibrating bell that made the Doctor groan and Clara's heart pound even harder in her chest.

"Doctor?"

"Bloody ancient lifts," he muttered before stabbing the call button at the bottom of the floor directory. It lit up, but nothing else happened.

"What do we do?" she asked.

"Pray that someone's paying attention at the security desk."

Clara released a shaky breath and nodded.

The Doctor frowned. "You OK?"

Her shallow breathing contradicted her as she nodded. "Yeah, I just… don't like closed spaces."

"You must love working in a cubicle then."

She tried to laugh, but it quickly turned into a gasp of panic. Clara placed her hands on her hips and started pacing the three steps between the doors and the back of the lift, if you could call that pacing.

The Doctor placed his hands on her shoulders. "Clara—breathe."

She nodded vigorously. "I am… I am."

She knew she was having a panic attack—she knew that the likelihood of them being trapped in there forever was slim, but she couldn't tell her heart rate to decrease or make herself stop sweating. She was starting to feel lightheaded.

"Sit down," the Doctor instructed.

"What?" she squeaked.

"Sit—it'll make the lift seem bigger."

They both sat cross-legged on the floor facing each other. Clara started peeling her cardigan away from her shoulders, panicking when it didn't come off easily. The Doctor shushed her calmly and helped her pull the sleeves off her arms.

"Is that better?" he asked.

Clara leaned her had back against the lift and shut her eyes. "Yes."

"Just breathe."

She did as she was told; it was all she could manage to do at any rate. Licking her lips, she took a series of deep breaths before opening her eyes to find him watching her anxiously.

"I'm sorry."

He smiled, which deepened the lines on his face but somehow made him seem twenty years younger. "Don't worry about it. We're all afraid of something."

Clara shut her eyes again and touched a hand to the side of her head, willing the world to stop spinning. It had gotten easier to breathe, but her head was spinning even faster and she could feel the sweat glistening on her skin. The Doctor must think she was a basket case.

That wasn't exactly what he was thinking as she sat there in her black camisole, skin shining and chest heaving as she clutched the side of her head, but he quickly glanced away when the lift shifted and she opened her eyes.

"Ah, here we go."

Clara scrambled to her feet and grabbed her cardigan from the ground, then stared at the sheer blouse in her hand in disbelief as the horrible realisation set in: she hadn't been wearing her cardigan. She'd just taken her blouse off in front of her boss.

She managed to get it back on by the time they made it off the lift onto the ground floor.

"Well," the Doctor said, turning to her just as she tucked the back of her blouse back into her skirt. "I hope you've enjoyed your first day. Looking forward to more."

She heaved a sort of laugh-sob that made him smile. He'd seemed really quite horrid at the start of the day, but Clara was starting to like him (although not like that—she was sure he was married with kids her age.)

"See you tomorrow, then," she said when they parted ways outside.

As soon as he rounded the corner, Clara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "One down, fifty-two more days to go."

* * *

A few days later, Clara still couldn't make heads or tails of the program they were supposed to be using. Every time she thought she'd figured something out, she discovered she was actually wrong or another dilemma presented itself. They ought to name the damn thing Hydra.

She knocked on the door to the Doctor's office one morning and smiled hesitantly.

"Yes?" he said impatiently. His expression softened when he looked up from his desk and saw Clara in the doorway. "What is it?"

He was wearing glasses. It took her a full five seconds to process why that was significant and another three for her to stifle that thought before it grow into something inappropriate. "I was wondering if you could help me with something."

He sat back in his chair a little, like he was preparing to stand. "Yes, what is it?"

She felt a pang of embarrassment that had nothing to do with the lift/panic attack/blouse removal incident, that is until the combination of the Doctor's curious face and the heat rising in her cheeks made her feel even more awkward.

Clara powered through it. "I'm having trouble with the software we're using to input data and do research. I can't seem to make heads or tails of it."

An almost knowing grin curled his mouth to one side of his face and he stood from his chair. "Here—sit."

"Oh… OK," she said, feeling slightly odd about being invited to sit in his chair. The leather was warm when she sat down.

"OK," he said, leaning down next to her to close out a few programs before balancing his palm on the desk. "Alright, open it up. It's that little blue icon there."

"Yes, thanks—I've figured that much out," she said a little too snidely, clicking on it.

"Do you want help or not?"

"I-I'm sorry."

He laughed. "Breathe, Clara."

His teasing tone indicated he hadn't forgotten the lift incident like she'd hoped, but it did ease her anxiety about talking to him. He seemed to like her well enough, even though she'd presented herself as a complete nitwit during the past week.

"Alright, you know how to access the spreadsheets, yes?"

"Yes."

"And cross-reference them with the data on this page."

Clara bit her lip, trying to think of any way she could possibly do that, and then exhaled heavily in defeat. "No."

The Doctor placed his hand over hers on the mouse and directed the cursor to the right of the screen, where there was a menu she'd never paid much attention to that helped her do everything she needed. He not only showed her the basics, but also shortcuts that would save her time and help her get ahead in the game. Maybe she was the teacher's pet.

"Thank you," she said when the lesson was finally over. She turned to face him and felt her smile waver when she noticed how close their faces were. "I shouldn't have taken up so much of your time."

"Yeah, but you'll make up for it later."

Clara suddenly felt two inches tall. That wasn't a solicitation, was it?

The Doctor's eyes went wide and he backed away from her. "No, no—I didn't… You'll make up for the time by working more efficiently."

She breathed a sigh of relief and then smiled, enjoying how the tables had turned. For once, he was the one flustered. "Got it."

She stood from his chair and then left his office with another 'thanks' that she hoped straddled the fence between casual and professional before walking back to her desk in the pen. Her heart was racing.

Was it bad that she was a little disappointed?

_Yes, Clara—that is definitely bad._

Later that week, she checked to see if he wore a ring on his left hand. He didn't.

* * *

They didn't interact much after that. He would glance at her sometimes in passing, or address her stiffly during intern meetings, but otherwise he seemed to be avoiding her at all costs. He was probably afraid she was going to file a sexual harassment complaint.

A week before her internship ended, she knocked on his door and tried not to look on the verge of another panic attack when he invited her in. He stuttered when he asked her to keep the door open.

Clara took a seat across from him and tucked her hands under thighs as she stared at deep blue coffee mug next to his keyboard. She didn't know how to say this, but she started talking anyway.

"I was just wondering if you'd heard anything about recruitment for full-time positions," she asked. "I handed in my resume last week… I understand if you can't say anything."

"I can't," he said, his tone rather apologetic.

Clara nodded. "Right. I just thought I'd ask."

She stood from her chair and smiled tightly before turning to leave the room.

"Clara?"

She turned at the doorway. "Yes?"

He gazed at her for a moment. "This company would be lucky to have you."

Their eyes met and remained locked together for several seconds. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

"Thank you, Doctor."

Clara then turned and practically ran back to her desk. She wondered if could handle working in the same office with him for another week, let alone the next few years. She was constantly asking herself why she always felt so awkward around him even though she already knew the answer.

* * *

All of the interns were meeting down the road at their favourite pub for a round of drinks to celebrate the end of their summer run at TARDIS Industries. Clara promised to meet up with them later, but she didn't feel much like celebrating.

She hadn't gotten the position she'd applied for.

It shouldn't have come as such a shock to her—she hadn't performed as well as some of the others and she'd had a rocky start, but she had shown the most improvement in her work performance over the past several weeks.

She stayed late that last day to pack up her things for sentimental reasons: she always got sad when things ended, and she didn't want anyone to see her cry if tears did spring to her eyes. Given how much she'd cried the night before when she realised she'd put so much effort into this internship only to get nothing out of it, tears were a possibility.

Clara was sniffling when she put the last of her things into her 'I 3 READING' canvas tote she'd gotten free at Blackwells when she'd bought an outrageous number of books one summer. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard someone clear his throat behind her, and she stared with muted horror when she saw that it was the Doctor.

His navy jacket was folded over one arm, his tie loose and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was blistering hot outside, but professional menswear dictated a suit and tie be worn year round.

"You're still here," he said.

She smiled tightly. "I was just about to leave."

"I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

Electricity crackled between them. She'd done her best to ignore it these past several weeks, but never before had they felt more alone. Her time at TARDIS Industries was over—they wouldn't have to see each other anymore. She felt equally saddened and relieved by this realisation. As much as she liked him, she never felt quite at ease in his presence.

Trauma dictated she shouldn't take the lift alone with him again, but someone else hopped inside with them just before the doors closed. Perhaps that was why the lift rode smoothly all the way to the ground floor.

They passed by the security officer at the front desk on their way out the door. Once outside on the pavement, they turned to each other with expectant looks on their faces they didn't know how to quell.

"I'm sorry you didn't get the job you applied for," he said.

Clara bowed her head. "Thank you."

"I think it's my fault," he said.

Her eyes snapped to his. "What? What do you mean?"

His mouth opened but no sound came out at first. "I recommended you for another position. It's a lower starting pay, but you could work your way up faster and I think you'd enjoy it more. It involves lots of charts."

She managed half a smile. "Why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Her expression softened. "Thank you, Doctor."

He shrugged and glanced away. "Well, thank me if you get it. You should hear back in a few days. I wrote you a hell of a recommendation, so if they don't give it to you, I'm inclined to take it personally."

The Doctor nearly fell off the kerb when she jumped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck in a rush of gratitude. He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he allowed them to hover just behind her shoulder blades until she pulled away from him.

"Sorry," she said. "That wasn't really professional."

"No… it's fine." He cleared his throat. "Were you lot meeting for drinks at the pub?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I was about to catch them up."

"Ah, right. Well, then… have a good evening."

"You too, Doctor."

She turned to walk towards the pub but then quickly swivelled around.

"Doctor?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning to her.

She nodded in the direction of the pub. "Come join us."

Once again, his mouth opened but no sound came out. "Ah, _ha_… No, I don't think so. Thank you."

"Why not?"

"I don't exactly fit in with a group of twentysomethings."

Clara smiled but shook her head. "Oh, Doctor; I think you severely underestimate how likeable you are."

His heart fluttered. "Maybe some other time."

She laughed nervously and mouthed 'OK' before turning around, clearly disappointed. Before she could take two steps away from him, Clara once again whipped around and called his name.

"Yes?"

She stared at him with an inscrutable expression before practically jogging the three steps that separated them so she could stand on her tiptoes and plant a kiss on his cheek. He couldn't help but jump back and stare at her in surprise.

"Some other time, OK?" she said, her invitation clear.

His answer was automatic. "OK."

Two weeks later, Clara Oswald had a new job, and a date with the man who'd helped her get it.


	5. Constant as the Stars

A Nanny and a Single Father

Twelve/Clara

K+

* * *

The grass tickled her skin as she and Hannah lay out in the garden, dinner settling into their bellies as they stared up at the stars. Like most children her age, Hannah preferred being outside than staying cooped up indoors, so Clara indulged her as often as she could. After dinner stargazing had become one of their rituals.

"Dad says you can see them better outside of the city," Hannah told her, as if Clara had no knowledge of the stars herself. "He says he and my mum used to go on trips to the country where they could see all the stars."

"That sounds lovely," Clara replied with a smile. She loved it when Hannah talked about her mum; she'd been so young when she died that the Doctor worried she wouldn't remember her. "Did your mum like the stars?"

Hannah nodded. "Yes. Daddy used to show her the stars with his telescope. He named one after her for her birthday."

"Did he really?" Clara replied with that astonished tone reserved for children. "Do you know which one's hers?"

Hannah squinted an eye shut and pointed past a cloud obscuring their view of the eastern sky. "It's back there, I think. Hiding."

She pouted and lowered her gaze back to Earth. Sensing Hannah's sadness, Clara rolled onto her side and wrapped an arm around the girl's middle before pressing a kiss to her fluffy blonde hair. Hannah giggled and squirmed away, but Clara held her tighter and peppered her face with kisses until Hannah laughingly asked her to stop. Clara pulled back and propped herself up on her elbow, continuing to smile at the girl who looked rather disappointed that she was no longer being showered with affection, even though she was the one who'd asked it to stop.

The back door to the house swung open, and both girls turned to see the Doctor descending the brick steps that led into the grass. Clara grinned when Hannah jumped to her feet and ran towards him, her arms open wide for a hug that she leapt into. The Doctor lifted his daughter from the ground and held her tightly, a reclusive smile appearing on his face.

"How's my girl?" he asked as he ran a hand over her downy curls. "Sleepy?"

Hannah pulled back with a yawn. "N… _No_."

Clara stood and wrapped the tartan shawl she'd brought out to keep herself warm even more tightly around her shoulders while she watched the two interact. The Doctor worked long hours at the new clinic that he'd helped open up in town, and it was a long commute to and from his house on the edge of the city, but he didn't want to give any of it up. Clara couldn't fault him for it, even if that meant he saw his daughter less. He'd lost too much already.

Hannah cupped her hand around her mouth and leaned in close to whisper something into her father's ear. His gaze lifted to Clara, who raised a curious eyebrow at this exchange, and then he laughed softly.

"I don't know where you get you're imagination," he said to Hannah.

"From you!" she insisted gleefully.

Clara's face hurt from smiling. She loved seeing them both smile; they hadn't done a lot of that when she'd first come to work for them almost a year ago. She wished she could take the credit for returning laughter to their home, but time was all they needed to heal. Time and a little help around the house.

The Doctor took Hannah upstairs to wash up and put her to bed, something she was a little old for at the age of six, but he so rarely saw her that neither was eager to give up on the ritual. Clara went into the kitchen and filled the sink with hot, soapy water so she could wash all the pots and pans and plates from dinner. It had been just her and Hannah, and yet somehow they still managed to make enough mess for four people.

She was drying off the small saucepan when she heard the Doctor's footfalls on the staircase. When his shoes hit the linoleum, she tossed the marigolds on the edge of the sink and turned around to smile at him.

"She in bed?"

He sighed. "Yes, but whether or not she was really asleep when I left her is anyone's guess."

Clara laughed. "I think she might have inherited your sleep cycle."

"Yes, I'm afraid that might be the case. Poor girl."

Clara had arrived one morning to find the Doctor still dressed in the same suit from the night before. _Did you sleep in that?_ she'd asked with a worried laugh as she entered the house. He'd stared at her in bewilderment before replying, _Oh, right—sleep._

"Oh, I should write you your cheque," he said, patting the pockets of his jacket. "So you can deposit it tomorrow before the banks close."

He spun in a slow circle as he search the room for his chequebook, which Clara happened to know was in its usual place in the study.

"It's fine," she assured him. "You can get it to me tomorrow if you'd like."

"Don't you have bills to worry about?"

"Yeah, but I can take a picture of the cheque with my phone and deposit it through an app. It's very handy."

The Doctor raised his hands helplessly from his sides. "Modern technology."

"Have you had anything to eat recently?" she asked, crossing over to the refrigerator. "We had some of that casserole you like for dinner; there's plenty left if you'd like me to warm it up for you."

He protested like he always did when he felt like she was going out of her way for him, but Clara never listened. She heated up a good chunk of the casserole in the microwave and then asked him about his day while the cheese sizzled in the background. The Doctor said it was more or less routine, but she knew he was making light of what he did—saving lives and all that. When the microwave beeped, Clara grabbed a fork and a napkin and then retrieved the hot plate so she could place it on the kitchen island in front of him. He continued talking as he ate, but when Clara moved to grab the empty plate to wash in the sink, he swatted her hand away.

"You don't have to wait on me hand and foot," he said, brushing past her so that he could wash the dish himself.

"I know. I just like helping."

He glanced at her over his shoulder and then turned off the tap. "Yes, I know." He turned around to face her, his hands folded behind his back as he leaned against the kitchen counter. "You're a tremendous help, Clara. I don't know what Hannah and I would do without you."

It was one of those things she never knew how to respond to, so instead Clara just bowed her head and smiled. He matched her smile with one of his rare ones and her heart fluttered in her chest, more out of excitement at such a rare show of emotion from the man than any attraction she had long since refused to acknowledge.

"It's late," he said. "You should head home. Unless you want to stay in the guest room again."

She'd only stayed the night one weekend several months ago when there had been a heavy rainstorm that few people would have ventured out in. The Doctor brought it up often, her staying the night. He'd originally offered her a position as a live-in nanny, but she'd insisted on keeping her flat and making due. She loved Hannah, but she didn't want her job to consume her life.

"Another time, maybe," she said politely, but her smile fell quickly when she realised how much that sounded like a promise to stay the night for something else.

If the Doctor had picked up on it, he didn't show it. "OK, well… have a good night."

"You too."

She didn't think about him on the train ride back to the city or during the walk up to her flat, but he was there the moment she closed her eyes. She thought a lot about him at night, which was something she'd never admit to anyone, let alone herself.

* * *

The Doctor growled at his laptop and pressed his mobile to his ear with the impatience of a stockbroker. Clara picked up on the third ring.

"Hey."

"Clara," he said. "This stupid laptop's malfunctioning again. I don't know how to get it to stop showing me bloody stock options."

He could practically hear her grinning on the other end of the line. "I told you not go with Windows 8."

"They were all Windows 8!"

"Not the Apple ones."

"You seriously expect me to use one of those MacAir ProBook thingies?" he replied dryly. "I can barely figure out how to set up my mailbox."

"It's easier on a Mac, you know. You want me to come over?"

He heaved a sigh at his foolishness. "No, no—of course not. It's your day off."

"I don't mind," she replied lightly. He could hear her shifting around like she was getting ready.

"No," he repeated in a deflated tone. "It's too long of a train ride in from the city; I can figure this out on my own."

"_Can_ you?" she replied sceptically.

He puffed out his chest even though she couldn't see. "I'm clever enough."

"Clever? Yes. It's patience you lack. Don't chuck it out the window before I can get there."

The Doctor stared at the phone after she hung up and wondered why he was so surprised. Clara Oswald had proven herself self-sacrificing and endlessly generous enough times for him to know that she would drop anything to help him even with the littlest thing. He hadn't intended for her to come over; he'd just hit an obstacle and she was the first person he thought of. He was helpless without her.

About an hour later, he heard her knock on the front door. He switched off the telly (he'd given up on the laptop about two minutes after their phone call) and ran a hand through his unruly hair before opening the door. Clara was wearing one of those oversized knit cardigans that made her look even smaller, and he felt the absurd urge to hug her. She looked so cosy.

"Show me the beast," she said with a light grin before passing by him.

He heaved a sigh and started listing off the machine's numerous inadequacies while Clara sat down on the edge of the sofa and started clicking away at the keys. She looked up at him expectantly after about ten seconds, and he abruptly stopped talking.

"You've fixed it already, haven't you?"

She smiled the sort of smile that was born from suppressed laughter and then patted the cushion next to her. "Come here and I'll show you."

What took her ten seconds to fix took him ten minutes to understand. It was embarrassing how easily modern technology foiled him; it made him feel old. He didn't like feeling old, especially not when he was sitting next to his twenty eight year old nanny.

Well, she wasn't _his_ nanny.

Not that he ought to be dwelling on that distinction.

"Where's Hannah?" she asked, eyes searching the room. "Is she out in the garden?"

"No, she's visiting her grandparents this weekend."

"Oh, right. How are they doing?"

The Doctor shut the laptop and leaned back against the cushions, his arms stretching out across the back of the sofa. "Well enough. I worry Hannah might be a bit much for Rory—he's got a bad back and she likes him to lift her up so she can pick apples from their tree in the back garden. It was fine when she was smaller, but she's getting awfully heavy. I told him to get a ladder."

Clara laughed. "Yeah, but no granddad can resist the plea of his granddaughter."

"I suppose not," he said. The Doctor examined her features curiously for a moment. "I hate that you came out all of this way for something you could have told me over the phone."

She shot him a look. "Do you honestly think you would have understood my instructions over the phone?"

"Ha—no, I suppose not. But it's a long ride in from the city."

She shrugged. "I'm used to it; it doesn't bother me."

An awkward but not altogether uncomfortable silence settled over them. They weren't used to being alone without Hannah running about somewhere or upstairs in bed, and even then Clara was usually gone after they ran out of things to talk about, which happened rather quickly on evenings when he got home from work. It was refreshing to see her on a Saturday afternoon when he wasn't bone tired or aching all over.

Clara's stomach took that opportunity to growl loudly, breaking the silence. Her eyes went wide and she cradled her belly as an embarrassed laugh burst from her lips, a laugh the Doctor echoed.

"Hungry?" he asked.

She bit her lip. "I might've napped through lunch."

He gave her a disparaging look that would have been more effective had he not paired it with a crooked grin that drew her attention to his lips. He rose from the sofa without another word and started rifling through the fridge.

"Ah, we need to run by the shop. We've got a bunch of ingredients that don't go together."

Clara shuffled into the kitchen after him. "I thought I restocked this thing the other day."

"Hannah eats like a teenage boy."

He sighed at the meagre offerings of his refrigerator before shutting the door and turning to the petite young woman leaning against the kitchen island.

"I'll take you out to eat."

Her laugh rang like a bell. "Take me where? There's nothing good around here except takeaway."

"We could go closer into town. Or just order takeaway. I know you love that Indian place. The whole house stank of curry after you watched the house in February."

"Says the man who can't go for a curry without dripping it on his shirt. You forget who does your laundry."

He blushed. She smiled.

"Curry sounds good."

He called in their order for delivery and Clara disappeared into the lounge. He had to keep shouting at her to confirm her order and Clara groaned loudly after the second time he checked on her naan preference. "Should _I_ be doing this?" she groused.

He hung up the phone and then walked into the lounge to find her sitting back on the sofa with his computer perched on her lap, her fingers clicking away at the keys.

"What are you doing now?" he asked. "Updating your twitter?"

"I'm downloading Chrome—I think half of your problems will be solved if you stop using Internet Explorer."

He scowled, even though he was sure she was doing something he'd appreciate. "Just don't download a virus."

"Yes, Captain."

He traced the contours of her profile with his eyes, his gaze lingering on the curve of her lips while her eyes remained glued to the computer screen. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the delivery man rang the doorbell and he hopped up to retrieve their food.

He nearly ran into Clara on his way back to the sofa. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the table. To eat."

"No! Let's eat here; this way we can watch the telly."

He might as well have suggested they dump the food on the carpet and gobble it up on all fours considering the scandalised look she gave him. He forgot how strict she was with Hannah about eating in the kitchen.

"Live dangerously, Oswald," he teased.

She relented with a sigh He couldn't help but smile as she helped him pull containers out of the large paper bag; this felt normal, almost to the point of déjà vu. But he and Clara had never eaten takeaway together, let alone sit and eat in front of the telly.

He dropped the remote next to him when he found an old movie with Katherine Hepburn. "I don't suppose you watch black and white movies, do you?"

She tore a piece of naan and dipped into the chicken tikka masala sauce. "Well, most of the movies I've watched recently involve fairy princesses and talking sea creatures, so I'll go for anything with real people."

They watched the movie in relative silence, one that was punctuated by the occasional question about Cary Grant and the pair of them having a good laugh when the Doctor dripped curry sauce onto his jumper. Clara jumped up to retrieve a wet rag from the kitchen and he sat there stiffly while she bent forward and tried to rub the stain out.

"You should just take it off. I'll put some washing liquid on it; should help get the stain out."

He was wearing a thin white t-shirt underneath, so he pulled the jumper over his head and handed it to her before dashing upstairs to find something else to wear. She was already back in her spot on the sofa with her knees curled to the side when he returned, now sporting a worn, faded blue jumper that had to be older than she was. Clara gave it a once over when he sat down and then returned her attention to the TV screen.

About halfway through the movie, she shifted to where her body was curled towards the centre of the couch and her head lolled against the cushion behind her. The Doctor hadn't really noticed until her head slid forward and her cheek pressed against his shoulder.

She was asleep.

He stared at her, unsure of what to do. He considered nudging her awake but she looked so peaceful. His eyes swept down the delicate curve of her nose to its pointed tip and he felt something stir in his chest. He wanted to reach up and push her hair out of her face, but instead he returned his attention to the movie. By the time it was over, Clara had snuggled up against his chest and he'd been inclined to wrap his arm around her, his hand resting lightly at her waist.

The noise from the TV had put her to sleep, but as soon as it shut off, she stirred against him.

"Doctor?"

Their faces were close, barely inches apart, and Clara stared at his lips as she struggled to remember when she'd fallen asleep. She remembered waking at one point to feel his arm wrap around her, and even though that was something unfamiliar and strange, she hadn't questioned it; she'd just fallen back asleep.

She felt jolts of electricity shoot from his fingertips into her skin, carving a path to her heart which started beating rapidly in response. Her breathing grew shallow and heavy, and the Doctor watched her with the most curious expression, one she didn't fully understand until their lips met.

The sound of their lips separating was absurdly loud in the quiet of the dimly lit room. The Doctor lifted his hand to the side of her head and kissed her again, his thumb brushing against her cheek as her breath shuddered against his mouth. She waited for that feeling of panic to set in—she was kissing her boss, a man who was nearly her dad's age—but it never came. She then waited for him to panic, but he only continued to kiss her with his surprisingly soft lips, lips that parted to envelop her lower lip between them.

She pulled back. "Doctor…"

He waited for her to continue, but she didn't. She just stared at his neck as her heart rate accelerated, and when she couldn't take it anymore she grabbed the back of his head and kissed him passionately, her fingers snaking through his hair as he slipped his hand inside her woolly cardigan to grab her waist.

The Doctor dipped forward to kiss her neck and Clara breathed loudly up at the ceiling as his lips pressed into her skin. His movements slowed and he held her tightly as he struggled to compose himself, but his restraint didn't feel like a rejection. His hand found its way into her hair and he sighed against the back of her neck, their bodies sinking comfortably into the other's embrace as the cogs turned in their heads.

It wasn't difficult to process. They'd known each other in a limited capacity for a year, and while their interaction had been confined to early morning conversations and late night cups of tea, their attraction and compatibility hadn't gone unnoticed. In fact, it had been so apparent that both had struggled to keep their feelings in check for fear of what it would mean to be together. The Doctor was afraid of taking advantage of the young girl who worked for him, of ruining the relationship his daughter had with her, and Clara was afraid of the same thing, but in reverse.

"I'm going to tell you a secret," she whispered into his ear. "Don't laugh."

He couldn't help but chuckle in response. "No promises."

Clara's fingers curled at the back of his neck. "I came to see you today because I missed you." She broke her own rule and laughed softly. "Is that crazy?"

He kissed her cheek and then pulled back to gaze at her fondly. "If it is, we're both mad."

* * *

Her father wasn't there to greet her when her grandparents dropped her off the following evening. Frowning, Hannah listened to her Granny and Granddad call his name up the stairs, both arguing that he had to be home because his car was parked out front.

Following a hunch, Hannah dropped her backpack near the entryway table and walked into the dining room to peer out the window to the back garden. One of the street lamps from the road behind their house cast a light on the two figures lying curled up on a blanket in the grass, their eyes cast upward at the night sky. Hannah beamed at them and then ran to the back door to fling it open.

Her dad and Clara both sat up in surprise when they heard her bounding down the steps and across the grass. Hannah flung out her arms as she sailed into them, nearly knocking them both back onto the ground.

"Daddy! Clara!" she giggled excitedly as her father helped her sit up.

"You're back early," he said with a smile.

"What's Clara doing here?" Hannah asked, turning gleeful eyes to her nanny. She could hear her grandparents shuffling onto the back porch. "Were you showing her mummy's star?"

"No, sweetheart," he said as he watched Hannah crawl into Clara's lap for a hug. "I was showing her yours."

* * *

**A/N**: These last few installments have featured 12/Clara mostly because I've got the largest number of prompts for them (and the most interesting prompts, imo) and also because the recent episodes have me super excited for them. The next few installments should feature both 10/Clara and 11/Clara, so here's your heads up!


End file.
